


Cumulonimbus

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Bath Sex, Bathtubs, Established Relationship, M/M, Makeup Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The water's cold by the time he gets home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cumulonimbus

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [[x](https://38.media.tumblr.com/41483edf142a3d27d75209e817fdc5c0/tumblr_nakic34uGf1r2devko1_250.gif)].

The water's cold by the time he gets home.

You were guessing at when he'd be back, anyway. Or even if. This isn't his house, as he likes to point out; it's yours, first and foremost. He didn't ask to come in the first time, no. You invited him. You're the one who gave him the key.

And you're the one who started this fight.

The wine's warm, too, black cherries and oak gone flat as you twist the tap, draw the hottest water into the tub. It's too hot. It stings your toes, makes you curl back into the chill where polar ice caps still lick at your ears. 

It's quiet again. Silent. Yet you know if you listened hard enough, you'd hear him moving around the apartment, your space. He's far more comfortable here, you think, than he'd ever admit. Somewhere, beyond the bathroom door, he's undressing, pulling off the layers of the day steady, one by one. Sometimes, he still comes home in costume, slathered in plaid and made-up bruises that you tend to, sometimes, as if they were the real thing. You push his ass on the bed, kneel by his boots and wipe the makeup off with a towel, with your teeth, and then you kiss them, kiss him, until he's gasping, his eyes narrow and exhausted with want.

"Ok," he'll say, nails in your neck. "Ok, baby. Come here."

And then he'll tumble to meet you, press you into the rug by your bed and smear Dean's smile all over your face.

It's two-thirty in the morning, in the darkest catch of the night here, in winter, and in spite of what you said this morning, whatever the fuck that it was, he's come back to you. He's come home.

The hot water's made it up to your chest now, leaking over your shoulders, your neck, and you give into it. Go with it. Let it tempt you under the surface and bury your face in its waves.

Here, there's only your heartbeat. Your body. The heat.

You reach out with one foot and twist the tap closed. Stop the water and wait till it stills. Then you open your eyes and watch your hand catch on your hips, watch the other press the wine glass to your chest.

Here, there's only your heartbeat. Your body. The heat.

Until you hear the door.

You let the rest of your breath out in bubbles, ephemera, and when you emerge, there he is. Waiting.

"Hey," he says, quiet familiar. "Didn't think you'd still be up."

He's perched on the bench by the door, shirtless and barefoot and gods, he looks exhausted. You were worn to threads four hours ago when you got home, sore from a day of stunt shit. You can only imagine what he must feel like, four hours and a dozen falls more.

But there's no recrimination in his face, no matter how hard you look. None of the tight-handled fervor he threw back at you this morning. Yesterday morning. Whenever. Hours and hours ago. 

But then, this is how fights go with Jensen: a flare up, a storm out, hours and hours of distance, even when you're working side-by-side. And when you find each other again, at the end of a day or a week, for him, the bruises have faded, the fight's long forgotten. Brushed aside by his need to touch you, to turn his palms over your skin and find himself in your mouth, in the heat between your hips, in the way he unwinds your name.

Usually, his sort of solution soothes you. You fight about stupid shit, anyway; the kind of things you can't name an hour later. Can't explain to your friends or your wife.

She's always been reasonable, the woman you love: the warm water to your hot and cold. With her, you fight for equilibrium. For patience. For peace. And in the end, you and she always manage to find it. To bring things back level again.

With Jensen, it's different. You're not sure why that's still a surprise. He and she, very different, in all the ways that matter. Except you.

With him, with Jensen, there's never been balance. Never a sense that feels steady and sure. You're high-order isotopes, you and he. Elements that collide and create and remake what it is you are together. It's terrifying and glorious, the way that he makes you feel; a dragon that's slipped his master's hold and has you pinned between fire and air, all your breath held there in its teeth. 

You can't give it words, the way that he looks at you. The butterflies in your palms when you touch. And that scares you, going silent in the mind. A poet ripped free from his pen.

Perhaps this is why you fight, the two of you, why you raise your voice and lash out whenever you decide he's stepped on your tail, or vice versa. Who knows? Because now, an almost-day later, you have no idea what you were so angry about. Not really. You started it, true, but now, you don't care why. Now, there's just him, sleepy and beautiful with storm clouds parked under his eyes.

"Cumulonimbus," you tell him, sinking in until the water hits your chin. "Peaks 10,000 feet up. Or more."

He laughs a little, hoarse. Voice wrecked from a day full of Dean. "What the fuck," he rumbles, rain out over the prairie. "Seriously, Misha. What the fuck."

He gets up before you can answer, takes three wet steps and plucks the wine glass out of your hands. He bends back and sets it on the countertop, fingers lingering over the stem, just to be sure. Then he's perched on the edge of the tub, blinking down at you, his hand combing its way through your hair.

"What the fuck," you repeat, something like a slow heavy sigh. "Hi."

"Hi," he says, his free hand trailing down your cheek, a smile sneaking out, low and lazy. "How the hell are you, huh."

He's covered in bruises. The real ones, the right kind. Pink and dark and still blooming. Not too bad, you think, tracing them over his chest, down his arms. Not too bad at all. "Beat you up pretty good, huh?"

He shakes his head, pressing himself against your fingers. "Nah," he says. "I'm ok."

You count the bruises with your hands, the ones you can see. Raise your head to find his eyes. Match his smile.

He hums, a soft call of assent and leans down, instinctive, tugging your head up to meet him. You get a shot of cold cream and cigarettes and the aftershave he pretends he doesn't like and then he's nudging your mouth with his. You shove yourself up in the tub, send the water diving over the sides, balance your weight on one hand and let your tongue drift into his mouth, inevitable. Perfect.

He makes a little sound, sweetgrass and eager. Licks at your lips. His jeans are soaked now, under your hands, and you want to touch him so badly that it burns, a pyre in your gut that his kisses only encourage, kindling on the sacrificial flames.

Your hand flicks up his thigh and catches him by surprise, your fingers working into his belt.

"Mmmm?" he says, his mouth falling over your chin.

You shove at the clasp, too wet to get a good grip. "Want you," you say. "Come on. Get these fucking things off."

He pushes off of you and stands, one fluid move. Even tired like this, shit, he's graceful. Less so when it comes to his pants, but that might be because he's watching you instead of his buckle, his zipper. Eyes heavy on your hand as you stroke your cock and stretch out in the heat, lie back in the warm water and wait for him. Wait.

He kicks his jeans away. Peels off his boxers--the black ones he was pulling on this morning as you snapped at his back, watching his face go hard in the mirror--and comes to you, for you. Finally.

"Sit up," he says, his eyes still on your cock. "And scoot back so I can--"

He steps into the tub, up and over, and just stands there for a second. Your thighs are between his feet as he finds your eyes, his face this beautiful flush. Then he's moving, so fast the water goes flying, and drops down to his knees. 

You're caught in his grip, just like always. Drawn by the heat of his hand on your dick, the other braced behind your head. All at once he's right there, close enough for you to touch. So you do. You trace his back while he strokes you, tiptoe your way down his ribs, past the bruises you can't see but you have no doubt are there, as he jerks you and thrusts, god. Works his hips against his hand, his pretty cock just missing your own.

"Want to fuck you," he slurs, the words weatherbeaten with lust. "All day, I had this-- Wanted to touch you so bad. Get my hands on your fucking cock and just--"

You grab his ass and tip your face up to his until his breath's dripping over your cheeks.

"You did, huh?" you say, slipping a hand down to his hip. "Then why didn't you? I was right there. All day. Right there beside you." 

He thumbs the head of your cock and laughs, unsteady. "Because I was mad at you, asshole. Because you"--he kisses you, quick, the worst kind of wet sloppy tease--"you fucking pissed me off this morning, ok?"

"Ok," you say, your tongue lingering over his teeth. "Yeah. Sure."

He snorts and throws his weight against you, pins you chest to chest and arches up, his hand still moving, his hips still pumping as you fight the water to keep him close.

"I don't--" he says. "I don't know why I love you, sometimes. Put up with your-- You and your bullshit, jesus. I swear."

Then he's kissing you again, hard and dirty. Sloppy in the way he only is when he's wound up like this, when he's dying to get you off so you can take his fingers, his cock. You get a hand on his neck and lean back, make him chase you, make him taste you all the way to your core. And he does, god. He does.

Your head hits his hand where it's still braced behind you, knuckles digging into your neck. You're surrounded by him, now, his body calling the four corners of yours and summoning something new, something that isn't you, something that feels so much better. Collide. Create. Remake.

He does something exactly right with his wrist and you feel it, deep in the balls of your feet: how hard he's going to make you come.

"Oh, shit," you say, you spit against his mouth, desperate. "Oh my god, Jensen. _Please_." 

He shudders, this lovely creature above you, around you, and nips at your lip.

"Ok," he whispers, that catch in his voice that only you get to hear. "Ok, baby. Come on."

When you come, you shove your face in his neck and shout, high and hurt. He's breathing so hard, his pulse twisting under your tongue as you spill, as he works you, as the pleasure licks up to your ears and eases back again, a wave retreating to sea.

"Baby," you echo, petting his shoulders as you drift back to shore. "Yes. Yes yes."

He reels off of you with a groan and settles back on his heels in what's left of the water. Oh. It barely comes over his feet. You start to sit up, to follow, but he shakes his head and pushes you back, two fingers fast on your forehead.

"Nah," he says, palming his cock. "Just like this, ok?"

You stretch out as best you can and watch him, this man who loves you, even if he doesn't know why. You watch him fuck his fist and sigh. Watch him slap the other on the side of the tub and fuck harder, all the while staring at you.

You grin, a big one that breaks your whole face. You can't help it. 

He scowls at you, or tries, his frown warped by pleasure. "What's so-- _fuck_ \--what's so funny?"

"You're beautiful," you tell him, fingertips tracing his knee. "Jesus god, Jen. You're fucking gorgeous. Even if you did flood the damn bathroom."

His eyes go wide. "Hey," he grits, "I was jerking you, asshole, had my hand on your damn cock when I--" His body flips up like a switch thrown by his dick. His fist goes a little too tight and his mouth falls open, hungry. "Shit, Misha. _Shit_." 

His come's a lot warmer than the last of your bath, hot where it hits your chest and your chin. "Yeah, sweetheart," you say, the words lost under his cries. "Just like that."

He folds up like an accordion and falls back to his haunches, exhausted. Shoves his fingers through the mess on your skin, his eyes settled plain on your face.

"I hate fighting with you," he says. "Seriously. I hate it. A lot."

You tangle your fingers with his, press them into your ribs. You want to say something snide, something quick. Something about how he's the one who was trying to argue just now when he had a fist on his dick, but the truth sneaks out instead. "Yeah," you say, thumbs turning over his thighs. "Me, either. I mean. Me, too."

He doesn't bring it up again until you're safe in your bed, the ocean that was once your bathroom abandoned until tomorrow. The water's not going anywhere.

"And anyway," you tell him, shoving him into the sheets. "Surely that's what towels are for."

He rolls his eyes--you know he does, even in the damn dark--and tugs you in after.

"So," he says, when you're almost asleep. "Can we just say, um. No more fighting?"

He sounds young, impossibly so. Most of the time, it's easy to forget that you have some years on him. Hell, in his heart, Jensen's always been old. So it's easy to forget that you have more experience with relationships. With love. With the bruises it can leave in its wake.

You shift in his arms, a neat little twist that puts your mouth right next to his ear. "I don't know," you say. "Why don't we try?"

He turns his head and moves his mouth over yours. "Can't hurt," he says after a moment. "Right?"

You press your hand to his chest and cage your fingers over his heart. "Right," you say. "Baby. Can't hurt to try."

He falls asleep easy, with you holding on, and you're just a heartbeat behind.


End file.
